The dim moonlight filtered through the windows of the building, casting long shadows over the disheveled room.
Seijirou lay propped against the bed, his body a map of bruises and cuts from Ayano's brutal assault earlier that day.
Bandages wrapped his torso and arms, but his eyes burned with unyielding fire.
The four women surrounded him on the worn futon, their clothes discarded in a hasty pile, driven by the raw need to heal him through their bodies, to drown the day's violence in waves of shared ecstasy.
Suzune knelt closest, her gentle hands trembling slightly as she traced the edges of his bandages, avoiding the sore spots.
"Let us take care of you," she whispered, her voice soft as silk.
But Seijirou's hand shot out, gripping her wrist firmly, pulling her down until her breasts pressed against his chest.
"No," he growled, his voice rough from pain but laced with command. "You'll do as I say. All of you."
